"Island Shadows"
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The engine's thrum vibrated through Lee's bones, steady as a thunderous heartbeat as she pressed her forehead to the cold plexiglass window. Cloud-misted moonlight rippled off the black water below, and the whirring rotor sliced the air so loudly she could feel it in her teeth. Lee's world had become sounds and scents—her hearing sharp enough to pick out each staccato ping in the gearbox, the oily tang of aviation fuel laced with the metallic scent of fear on Elle beside her. For all her gifts, nothing prepared her for betrayal.
They were meant to be flying over the border, north into Canada, towards safety and blank snowfields where their clones would lose their trail. That was the plan, anyway. But then Elle had pulled Lee out of hiding in the abandoned parking garage, pressed a battered GPS into her palm, and hustled her toward the waiting helicopter with only a cryptic, "Trust me. We're safer this way."
At first, Lee thought it was nerves when she watched the digital map in her hand. But as the minutes stretched, and the GPS showed them banking southeast, unmistakable panic fluttered in her chest. Why weren't they heading north? She tasted anxiety at the back of her tongue—thick, bitter—as she glanced at Elle's profile. Elle’s eyes fixed forward, lashes shining in the green glow of the instrument lights.
"Elle," she yelled over the engine, "this isn’t the way to Canada. Where are we going?"
Elle looked at her, face set, jaw hard. "I can't explain here. We're almost there."
It wasn't enough, but Lee could do nothing. Hemmed in by metal and rules of physics, her hands trembled against the harness. Was this how prey felt—when terrain funneled them so they couldn't run or hide, only wait for fate’s teeth? She fanned her nostrils, picking out scents from the pilot—redolent of stale cigarettes and cheap soap; no immediate threat, there. Lee's acute senses kept darting to possibilities for escape: which bolts held the doors, patterns in Elle’s breathing, the rhythm of her own fear.
As the helicopter dipped, Lee's stomach twisted. The world below had changed: an island, rough-hewn, rimmed with jagged rocks and little more than a scattering of buildings lit like lonely fireflies. She barely had time to process before they touched down, skids scraping against a helipad that looked as if it had been carved out by hand.
Elle leaped down, motioning for Lee to follow. "Come on," she urged, voice half-whisper, half-command. Lee's skin prickled with suspicion. Still, she trailed behind, every muscle tense, every sense straining for a trap.
The bar sat hunkered at the edge of the harbor, neon sign buzzing, surf contending against ancient pylons. Inside, it was a cave of old jokes, sea salt, cheap aftershave, and lies. Shadows hunched in corners around battered tables, faces half-hidden by smoke and hats. Lee’s eyes darted, searching faces, hearts ticking like clocks in her ears. She didn't want to sit—wanted to pace, run, bolt—but Elle rested a calming hand on her shoulder.
“I need to meet someone,” Elle murmured, scanning the room.
Orchestrated coincidence. Lee knew that tone; she’d heard it just before her teachers at the Lab—the place that birthed her, and her would-be assassins—handed her over for a new test. The memory was a cold steel file in her lungs.
“Are you sure?” Lee whispered, voice raw.
Elle didn’t answer. She drifted toward a booth at the back where a woman in a navy pea coat leaned, face shrouded, eyes glancing up beneath the brim of a rain-dark hat. Lee hung behind, refusing the chair, arms folded. The island, the bar, the stranger—it all felt like a story she’d heard before, one that ended badly for people who trusted.
“You’ll be safe here,” Elle insisted, voice low but firm.
Lee forced herself to breathe, taste, listen, analyze. She caught a new scent—clove cigarettes, adrenaline, and the faint trace of synthetic fiber from combat gear. The woman, then, was no ordinary contact; she was dangerous.
Questions crashed against her skull: Who was this woman? What had Elle arranged? Could she forgive her friend, if forgiveness mattered, for changing the plan when she was desperate for predictability?
Wariness was an animal crouched in her gut. Lee's heart beat louder. She was still running, even as she stood in the shadows of this island bar, and somehow, the chase had only begun.
This story was generated by user jess.jessie0 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about how Lee's girl with enhanced senses was running away with her ally Elle from their clones who wanted to kill them. They were supposed to go to Canada, but her ally tricked her and they flew somewhere else by helicopter. Describe how Lee felt during the helicopter ride. When the helicopter landed Elle took her to a bar on the island. Elle clearly wanted to meet someone there and seek help, but Lee was skeptical and hesitantly followed her to the bar.
Response: The engine's thrum vibrated through Lee's bones, steady as a thunderous heartbeat as she pressed her forehead to the cold plexiglass window. Cloud-misted moonlight rippled off the black water below, and the whirring rotor sliced the air so loudly she could feel it in her teeth. Lee's world had become sounds and scents—her hearing sharp enough to pick out each staccato ping in the gearbox, the oily tang of aviation fuel laced with the metallic scent of fear on Elle beside her. For all her gifts, nothing prepared her for betrayal. They were meant to be flying over the border, north into Canada, towards safety and blank snowfields where their clones would lose their trail. That was the plan, anyway. But then Elle had pulled Lee out of hiding in the abandoned parking garage, pressed a battered GPS into her palm, and hustled her toward the waiting helicopter with only a cryptic, "Trust me. We're safer this way." At first, Lee thought it was nerves when she watched the digital map in her hand. But as the minutes stretched, and the GPS showed them banking southeast, unmistakable panic fluttered in her chest. Why weren't they heading north? She tasted anxiety at the back of her tongue—thick, bitter—as she glanced at Elle's profile. Elle’s eyes fixed forward, lashes shining in the green glow of the instrument lights. "Elle," she yelled over the engine, "this isn’t the way to Canada. Where are we going?" Elle looked at her, face set, jaw hard. "I can't explain here. We're almost there." It wasn't enough, but Lee could do nothing. Hemmed in by metal and rules of physics, her hands trembled against the harness. Was this how prey felt—when terrain funneled them so they couldn't run or hide, only wait for fate’s teeth? She fanned her nostrils, picking out scents from the pilot—redolent of stale cigarettes and cheap soap; no immediate threat, there. Lee's acute senses kept darting to possibilities for escape: which bolts held the doors, patterns in Elle’s breathing, the rhythm of her own fear. As the helicopter dipped, Lee's stomach twisted. The world below had changed: an island, rough-hewn, rimmed with jagged rocks and little more than a scattering of buildings lit like lonely fireflies. She barely had time to process before they touched down, skids scraping against a helipad that looked as if it had been carved out by hand. Elle leaped down, motioning for Lee to follow. "Come on," she urged, voice half-whisper, half-command. Lee's skin prickled with suspicion. Still, she trailed behind, every muscle tense, every sense straining for a trap. The bar sat hunkered at the edge of the harbor, neon sign buzzing, surf contending against ancient pylons. Inside, it was a cave of old jokes, sea salt, cheap aftershave, and lies. Shadows hunched in corners around battered tables, faces half-hidden by smoke and hats. Lee’s eyes darted, searching faces, hearts ticking like clocks in her ears. She didn't want to sit—wanted to pace, run, bolt—but Elle rested a calming hand on her shoulder. “I need to meet someone,” Elle murmured, scanning the room. Orchestrated coincidence. Lee knew that tone; she’d heard it just before her teachers at the Lab—the place that birthed her, and her would-be assassins—handed her over for a new test. The memory was a cold steel file in her lungs. “Are you sure?” Lee whispered, voice raw. Elle didn’t answer. She drifted toward a booth at the back where a woman in a navy pea coat leaned, face shrouded, eyes glancing up beneath the brim of a rain-dark hat. Lee hung behind, refusing the chair, arms folded. The island, the bar, the stranger—it all felt like a story she’d heard before, one that ended badly for people who trusted. “You’ll be safe here,” Elle insisted, voice low but firm. Lee forced herself to breathe, taste, listen, analyze. She caught a new scent—clove cigarettes, adrenaline, and the faint trace of synthetic fiber from combat gear. The woman, then, was no ordinary contact; she was dangerous. Questions crashed against her skull: Who was this woman? What had Elle arranged? Could she forgive her friend, if forgiveness mattered, for changing the plan when she was desperate for predictability? Wariness was an animal crouched in her gut. Lee's heart beat louder. She was still running, even as she stood in the shadows of this island bar, and somehow, the chase had only begun.
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